


got a hold on me

by DetectiveJoan



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: 142 Scrutiny, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hugs, Jossed, Light Dub-Con Mind-Reading, M/M, References to Canon-Typical Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 05:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19717438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveJoan/pseuds/DetectiveJoan
Summary: By some miracle of (some) god, they survive the arctic. Jon and Basira crawl back to civilization on frostbitten hands and knees scraped bloody, and Martin is there waiting with breath abated.“Oh thankchristyou’re okay,” he says, and collapses into Jon—wraps his arms around his ribcage, buries his face against his chest as though that’ll prevent Jon from Seeing that he’s crying a bit.“I—ah,” Jon says. “Yes. Well.”





	got a hold on me

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt: JonMartin+touch with relief
> 
> [title from](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oo4JhsNETRE)

By some miracle of (some) god, they survive the arctic. Jon and Basira crawl back to civilization on frostbitten hands and knees scraped bloody, and Martin is there waiting with breath abated.

“Oh thank _christ_ you’re okay,” he says, and collapses into Jon—wraps his arms around his ribcage, buries his face against his chest as though that’ll prevent Jon from Seeing that he’s crying a bit.

“I—ah,” Jon says. “Yes. Well.”

Martin is the hottest thing he’s touched in three weeks, and it’s probably a symptom of hypothermia the way he feels suddenly warm and stiff all over. It’s the inverse of putting ice on a sunburn, an attempted overcorrection that paralyzes his physical response. 

The joints of his fingers burn.

Basira takes pity on him. “I’m alright, too,” she says. “Do I get a ‘welcome back from eternal darkness, thank you for saving the world’ hug, or is that privilege reserved for you manly types?”

“Right,” Martin says. He sounds like he means to let go, but his grip around Jon tightens. He sniffles against his sweater. 

_What do I do_ , Jon wants to mouth at Basira but she rolls her eyes at his discomfort hard enough to make it clear that he should already know the answer. And he does, technically. 

He should comfort Martin. Exactly how he’s meant to do this is a bit beyond his grasp.

He has a bizarre mental image of patting Martin on the head and saying “there, there”, which—yes, even he knows that isn’t right. 

Still, he leans toward the instinct, and lets one of his hands tentatively come to rest on the back of Martin’s head. His hair is surprisingly soft, and he runs his fingers through it a few times soothingly. His other arm drifts around Martin’s shoulders, thumb resting along a seam of his jacket.

He closes his eyes and lets his Gaze linger.

“I’m alright,” he says quietly, unspooling the words from Martin’s mind. “I’m fine, and I’m here. Everything’s okay, I promise.”

The movement of his hand becomes easier as he speaks. 

Martin snorts, the sound wet and broken up and ungainly. “You’re just saying what I want to hear,” he accuses.

“Guilty,” Jon says, and sounds it.

“Yeah, that’s our Jon,” Basira notes. “Notorious sweet-talker.” 

Martin laughs again, almost properly this time, then squeezes Jon once before finally letting him go. He doesn’t look him in the eye, but Jon doesn’t need him to.

“I’m sorry. You think I’d be used to this kind of thing after the coma—and then the _coffin_ , jesus christ. But I just don’t know what to do with myself when you—any of you,” he adds to Basira, “—go round trying to get yourselves killed.” 

“We were trying to save the world,” she replies. “Again. And we did. You’re welcome, by the way.” 

There isn’t quite space, but she puts herself between them and collects her promised hug. She squeezes until he groans. 

“Thank you for not dying in the process,” he says, back to the knife-edge of sincerity and sarcasm he walks so well when they’re all too aware of how ludicrously off-script their lives have gotten. 

_Archival assistant, entry-level position._

He digs the remnants of tears from the corner of his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm DetectiveJoan and you can find me on [tumblr](http://detectivejoan.tumblr.com/)


End file.
